‘I hate being read to,’ explained Stephen casually. ‘Now, now!’ gently scolded Joseph. ‘We are all longing to hear the play, I’m sure. You mustn’t pay any attention to old Stephen. What do you say to giving us a reading after tea? We’ll gather round the fire, and enjoy a real treat.’

‘Yes, if Willoughby starts to read it directly after tea, Uncle Nat won’t have time to get away,’ said Paula, brightening.

‘Nor anyone else,’ interpolated her brother.

This remark not unnaturally involved Roydon in a declaration of his unwillingness to inflict the literary flowers of his brain upon an unsympathetic audience. Stephen merely said Good! but everyone else plunged into conciliatory speeches. Finally, it was agreed that Roydon should read his play after tea. Anyone, said Paula, casting a dagger-glance at her brother, incapable of appreciating Art might absent himself with her goodwill.

It next transpired that Joseph had instructed the head-gardener to uproot a young fir tree, and to bring it up to the house for decoration. He called for volunteers in this festive work, but Paula evidently considered a Christmas tree frivolous, Stephen was apparently nauseated by the very mention of such a thing, Edgar Mottisfont thought it work for the younger members of the party, and Maud, plainly, had no intention of exerting herself in any way, at all.

Maud had been reading more of the Life of the Empress of Austria, and created a diversion by informing the company that the Hungarians had all worshipped Elizabeth. She feared, however, that her mind had not been stable, and suggested to Roydon that she would provide an excellent subject for a play.

Roydon appeared bewildered. He said that costume pieces (with awful scorn) were hardly in his line.

‘She seems to have had a very dramatic life,’ persisted Maud. ‘It wouldn’t be sword-and-cloak, you know.’

Joseph intervened hastily, saying that he thought it would hardly be suitable, and could he not persuade Maud to lay aside the book and help him with the tree?

He could not. In the end, only Mathilda responded to his appeal for assistance. She asserted her undying love for tinsel decorations, and professed her eagerness to hang innumerable coloured balls and icicles on to the tree. ‘Though I think, Joe,’ she said, when the company had dispersed, ‘that no one else feels any sympathy with your desire for a Merry Christmas.’

‘They will, my dear; they will, when it comes to the point,’ said Joseph, incurably optimistic. ‘I have got a collection of little presents to hang on the tree. And crackers, of course!’

‘Does it strike you that Edgar Mottisfont has got something on his mind?’ asked Mathilda.

‘Yes,’ Joseph replied. ‘I fancy there is some little matter connected with the business which has gone wrong. You know what a stick-in-the-mud Nat is! But it will blow over: you’ll see!’

Judging from Mottisfont’s crushed demeanour at luncheon, his interview with his sleeping partner had not been in keeping with the Christmas spirit. He looked dejected, while Nathaniel sat in disapproving gloom, repulsing all attempts to draw him into conversation.